


Fading Away

by Karri



Series: Unfinished Business [4]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Tag, Episode: s01e04 The Good Soldier, Friendship, Gen, Maternal Constance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-16 23:03:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4643325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karri/pseuds/Karri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Good Soldier tag - Once again, the events of the day have caught up to Aramis; fortunately his friends are there to see him through it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_"I’m sorry, old friend.”_

Aramis had meant it -- to the furthermost depths of his soul, he had meant it.  He hated that it had been his bullet that killed his friend, but... Equally, he was relieved.

 _Marsac was done--with running, with guilt...with life._   _He wanted to die; he wanted me to kill him.  He wasn’t subtle about it; either in his words or in his actions, when he said it ended there and then purposely misaimed his shot at me,_ Aramis told himself.

So, Aramis had obliged his old friend.  He had killed him, and it grieved him to have done it.  _Yet, had it been anyone else, they wouldn't have held him as he died or looked him in the eye and allowed him to call himself a musketeer. No, as bitter as the end was, there could have been no better outcome,_ he reminded himself.

 _Marsac died a musketeer,_ Aramis thought, proudly.  _Perhaps, I could have tried harder; perhaps I could have talked him down, found a way to disarm him, something....something that would have saved his life, but the reprieve would only have been temporary, and it would have deprived him of that honor._

_“Marsac’s spirit died in that forest in Savoy, five years ago.  Just took this long for his body to catch up.”_

Aramis had meant that, as well.  He wondered, sometimes, if his own had also died there.  _Am I just a ghost, masquerading as a living man?  Playing a part until my body finally catches up to my spirit?_

The thought spun around his mind, and suddenly, Aramis stopped walking.  He couldn’t face the garrison; he couldn’t face his brothers – their concern, their sympathy... their belief that he was alive. 

 _But I am alive!_ He reminded himself, and just as abruptly needed to be with his brothers, to see the concern in the eyes, to receive their sympathetic pats...to feel their assurance that he was _not_ a ghost. 

Yet, the previous thought still lingered, warring with the latter and leaving him paralyzed with indecision.  Thus, he stood, stock still, in the middle of the street -- oblivious to the glances of the people dashing past as they sought shelter from the rain; oblivious to the rain itself.  It dripped off his cloak and the hat still held in his hand.  It dripped, too, from his hair, down his back. It ran in rivulets down his leathers and into his boots.  It splashed against his face and chest, meandering down until the inside of his shirt was as wet as the outside of his cloak.  

“Aramis?” a voice called, but he was oblivious to that, as well. 

“Aramis!” the voice called, again, and hand touched his shoulder.   Aramis started slightly as the touch brought him back to awareness.  Then, he winced, as much at the depth of the concern in d’Artagnan’s eyes, as the amount of rain dripping off the front of the cloak the young man had pulled over his head.   

“Aramis, come inside!” d’Artagnan insisted, with a tug on his arm.  “You’re soaked through!  And I will be, too, if we’re out here much longer...”

Aramis followed, more out of habit than conscious choice, and realized, with the abruptness with which his thoughts seemed to flow at moment, that he’d stopped near the well that stood outside Bonacieux’s.

“Come on!” Constance urged from the doorway, before making way for d’Artagnan to dash inside.  Quickening his pace, Aramis soon slipped past her, as well, to stand dripping in her kitchen.

“Don’t just stand there making a puddle on my floor!” Constance scolded, pulling out a chair for him, and then, when he didn’t move, taking him by the hand and pulling him over to it.   “Sit!” she insisted.  “No, wait!” she added, before he could move.  “Hat! Cloak!” she demanded, holding her hand out for both.  “Then that soggy uniform, if you please.  You’ve already soaked my floor; no need to soak the furniture, as well.”

Aramis complied, numbly.  Handing over his hat and cloak, he started at the ties of his leathers, as Constance’s voice streamed on in the background.

“And why weren’t you wearing this?” she demanded, as she hung his hat beside the door. "It does your head no good when it's in your hand." Without waiting for a response, she continued on in a low murmur, “Don’t know what you were thinking! Catch your death, you will.” Then, her voice rose again as she insisted, “Here, let me!  We’ll never get you out of those wet clothes at that rate.”

It was then that Aramis realized his cold fingers weren’t making much progress. _I suppose I must be solid, else she couldn’t be stripping off my leathers,_ Aramis mused, as her hands made quick work of the ties and catches.  _Yet, my mind has grown so foggy all the sudden, I wonder if perhaps I’m not really an spirit about to fade into mist now that I've sent Marsac into the arms of our brothers._

“There we are,” announced Constance, and he registered the loss of the leathers' comforting solidity.  “Now, sit!” she insisted, all but shoving him down into the chair.   “Let’s get those boots off you, too.  I dread to think about the state of your stockings.”

“Thank you, madame, I can manage,” Aramis insisted, chivalry clearing the fog in his brain a bit as he realized that Constance intended to remove his boots for him. 

“You’d better dump the water outside so they can dry,” Constance instructed d’Artagnan, as the boots slowly came off and were passed along, “and then fetch a dry shirt and a blanket, would you?”  Murmuring to herself, she added, “Those trousers aren’t _too_ wet, I think.  Come on, let’s sit you nearer the fire and get you warmed up, and we just might stop you catching the chill you deserve for standing out in the rain like a simpleton.”

Then, she was pulling him up, and it seemed to Aramis that he’d wandered back into the fog--or perhaps it was a dream--as he let her guide him nearer the fire and push him down into another chair. The warmth seemed to thicken the fog until Constance’s voice seemed more the murmur of a fast-moving stream than a person, and he drifted, contentedly, as her skirts swirled and eddied around him. Until...

“Come on, Aramis!” a voice prodded, as a hand lightly shook his shoulder, rousing him enough to glance up into d’Artagnan’s concerned, yet exasperated, expression. “Seeing you standing out there in the rain has put Constance in a mothering mood, so don't think she won't march over here and demand you put your arms up so she can change that shirt for you.”

Belatedly, Aramis realized his friend had dropped a dry shirt into his lap, and he fumbled with his wet one, as the threat of Constance changing him like a child sank into his muddled brain. It took more effort than he thought it ought, but as Aramis finally managed to pull the dry shirt over his head, before d’Artagnan’s jumped in to tug it down for him.

“Here, let me,” d’Artagnan’s offered, his eyes canting in Constance’s direction as he tugged the shirt down for Aramis, before wrapping a soft blanket around his shoulders. “There, that should do it,” he murmured, with final pat of on the shoulder, before ambling off to find his own cozy seat, leaving Aramis to sink back into his comfortable fog.

He had just begun drifting quite contentedly when a knock startled him back to awareness, yet again. Aramis bit back a curse at the disruption, but righted himself in the chair, all the same, and shifted to better see the door.

“Not you two, as well!” he heard Constance grumble as she shifted to make way for Athos and Porthos to enter. “Do none of you have enough sense to get in out of the rain?”

“We beg your pardon, Madame Bonacieux,” Athos offered, with a slight bow. “Once the Captain returned, we had hoped Aramis would soon follow. But when he did not, we thought it prudent to go in search of him and thought perhaps d’Artagnan might be of assistance,“ he explained, before casting his eyes on Aramis. Raising a brow at the sight of him, Athos added, wryly, “I see, now, it was unnecessary.”

“Well, as you're here now, you may as well make yourselves comfortable,” Constance huffed. “At least until the rain lets up. One of you chilled through is quite enough, I should think.”

Aramis let himself slump back down into his pleasant fog as the new arrivals bustled around, divesting themselves of hats and cloaks and finding comfortable spots by the fire in which to settle.

“He’s more asleep than not,” Porthos murmured, ruffling Aramis’s damp curls as he passed. “Hope he wakes up when the rain stops. He’s heavier than he looks, he is,” he added with a chuckle, as he warmed his hands before the hearth.

Not quite drifting enough yet to be oblivious, Aramis considered objecting to the notion that he might need to be carried, but the thought of speaking seemed so...laborious, _and, besides, I cannot be a fading spirit if Porthos is concerned about the weight of me._ So he let it slide, and settled for instead on enjoying the pleasant buzz of voices as Athos, Porthos, and d’Artagnan chattered with each other.

“The Cardinal...” he thought he heard somewhere along the stream of words, and wondered briefly if he should rouse enough to actually listen. _There’s usually something dire in the works when his name comes up,_ Aramis mused. _I should probably be paying attention._

Yet, even that task seemed too laborious at the moment, so Aramis quickly dismissed the thought and drifted away again.  He managed, this time, to find a nice, gently current in which to float so contentedly that he hardly noticed when, sometime later—could have been days or minutes... _it’s all the same,_ Aramis surmised dreamily—a hand pressed against his forehead.

“Constance,” said a voice from far away. “Should he be this warm?”

Aramis wondered, w _ho is warm, and how warm is “this warm”, and why is “this warm” bad?_ He was certain that it was bad, though, for the tone of the distant voice had been anxious. _I should wake up and find out why it’s anxious,”_ he told himself, but then wondered if he even could anymore.   His brain seemed no longer encased by the fog, but to be a part of it. _I think perhaps I am a ghost, afterall,_ _and, now that my task is done, my body HAS faded away,_ he decided, though he couldn’t quite muster the energy to be concerned about it.

Another, smaller hand replaced the large hand pressed to his forehead.

“Oh, bother,” a softer, but still far away voice cursed. “I knew he’d catch a chill...standing out in the rain like that...drenched to the bone...what was he thinking!” it muttered in one long, continuous stream. Then, a gentle, but louder voice began prodding, “Aramis? Can you wake up for me now, please?”

 _No,_ he thought, because he didn’t at all want to wake. _Besides, what point is there in waking when I’ll be nothing but a wisp of smoke soon, anyway._ But the gentle voice was kind and patient, and most definitely female, and the gentleman in him insisted that he must, therefore, oblige.

“That’s it,” the gentle voice encouraged, as he struggled to convince his heavy eyelids to open.

“Constance?” Aramis queried, as his will won the battle, and his eyes squinted open to find a familiar face smiling up patiently.

“Mmm,” she murmured in confirmation. “You’ve managed to catch yourself a fever,” she told him in a slow, calm voice.

Aramis’s brow furrowed with his attempt to comprehend her words. _How can I have a fever when I’m hardly more than mist?_

“Aramis? Are you with me?” Constance prodded, before glancing to Athos, who’d knelt down beside her to peer into Aramis’s face.

“Aramis?” Athos tried, and Aramis frowned a little at the concern in his voice.

The frown deepened as Athos reached up to press a hand to his forehead, and Aramis remembered, vaguely—almost as though he’d dreamed it—other hands pressing against his forehead. _I must still be solid, after all,_ he realized.

“Aramis,” he heard again, and this time managed a murmured, “hmmm.”

“Ah, there you are,” Athos replied, dryly, tossing him a concerned sort of half smile.

Aramis smiled back, tiredly, but it fell away, as he asked, “I’m really here, right?”

Athos brow furrowed in concern as he glanced over his shoulder to Porthos, who answered, “Of course you’re here, brother. You thinking of wandering off somewhere else?”

Aramis followed the voice until he met Porthos’s eyes, to whom he said, “I thought perhaps my body had gone to catch up to my spirit, but… I’m still solid? I’m still here, right? Still alive…not a ghost…”

Porthos and Athos shared a worried frown, before Porthos attempted a smile, as he responded, “Definitely still solid…a little too solid, perhaps, if I’m gonna have to carry you off to bed.”

Aramis smiled, wanly. “Good. Not ready to join my spirit yet…” he murmured, letting his eyes close as he started to drift away.

“Aramis?” Constance prodded, though, and he sighed, wearily, before pushing his eyes open again. “I think, perhaps, it would be best if you just sleep here, in d’Artagnan’s bed, rather than wander back out into the damp air to get back to your own, all right?”

A short squawk from above him told Aramis that someone objected to the plan, but the effort of waking and talking had been too exhausting for Aramis himself to object.

“Aramis?” Constance pressed, and he realized he’d closed his eyes again, instead of nodding, as he’d intended. He tried again and managed a weak nod. “Good, good. All right, then, let’s get you tucked into bed,” she murmured, then paused, and Aramis wondered if she’d decided to have pity on him and leave him be. It was not to be, though, as, after a moment, she asked, “Can you manage it, do you think?”

 _Manage what?_ Aramis wondered, his brow furrowing as he tried to concentrate on the question.

“Aramis?” Constance prodded, again, her voice more urgent than it had been a moment before. “Perhaps the three of you should shift him to the bed, instead,” she added, though her voice had begun to grow distant again.

 _Three of you..._ Aramis mused, dreamily, before it clicked in his brain, and he groaned to himself. He then groaned, low, but out loud, as he peeled his eyes open once more and fixed them on Constance, who had stepped away.

“No, no,” he huffed, breathlessly. “I can manage it!” _I’m certainly not going to be carried off and tucked into bed like a child._    

Aramis could feel Porthos and Athos, and Constance, too, hovering around him as he pushed himself up, but he ignored them in favor of focusing on the task. He was pleased when he managed it with only the slightest wobble at the end.

“I can manage,” he growled, as Porthos reached for his arm when he began shuffling, droopily, toward the bedroom.

“All right, then,” Constance huffed with relief. “D’Artagnan grab a few more pillows, will you? He’ll rest easier if he’s sitting up a bit, I think,” she instructed, as she tagged along behind.

Aramis was concentrating too much on his feet to notice if d’Artagnan complied, or not. Yet, as he eased himself onto the bed, at last—it had seemed to take a ridiculously amount of time, considering the distance—Aramis found a stack of pillows waiting for him, and settled down into them with a blissful sigh.

“No, no, don’t go back sleep yet,” Constance insisted, and he prodded his eyes open again to stare at her balefully. She replied with an apologetic smile, smoothing back his curls. “I’ve started some tea, and I want you to drink a cup before you sleep. I’m just going to go fetch it now. Can you stay awake for me, just for that long?”

 _No,_ he decided, but the earnest worry in her eyes made him nod, all the same. Forcing his head off the pillows, Aramis noticed his brothers had all settled around the room in various spots and were staring at him with unguarded worry…except for d’Artagnan, whose expression seemed as much vexation as concern.

“What’s the matter?” Aramis asked, almost managing a proper smile, at the guilty look that flashed in d’Artagnan’s eyes.  “Come on, out with it,” he pressed, when his young friend turned suddenly bashful.

“I was just thinking,” he confessed, in a low, embarrassed tone, “about the unfairness of ending up on the floor when I’m the one paying for the bed.”

“And you’ll be paying double for that,” Constance grumbled, tossing a disapproving scowl at her lodger as she came back into the room with a carefully balanced cup of tea. “Friend’s burning up with fever and all he’s worried about is his rent…,” she muttered, darkly, under her breath, as she passed.

“I’m worried about Aramis, too,” d’Artagnan responded, his tone somewhere between defensive and apologetic. “I just wish he weren’t in my bed, that’s all.”

“You’re welcome to join me,” Aramis offered, tossing him a quick smile, before reaching for the cup Constance seemed intent upon holding for him. _He is right about bringing out her motherly nature,_ he decided, as her hands hovered over his, seemingly only barely resisting the desire to let him try to feed himself. He was pleased, though, when he managed, as exhausting as it was, to down the whole cup without assistance. His hand dropped heavily back to the bed when he was done. Too wearied to worry either about the final disposition of the cup, or Constance’s feelings, Aramis’s grimaced at the aftertaste.

Constance, though, only chuckled. “It’s not the best tasting—that’s the fault of the yarrow and thyme—but the honey and chamomile made it not so bad as that, I’m certain. Besides, it’ll do you more good than bleeding, or whatever else a physician might do to you.”

“My apologies, dear madame,” Aramis offered, sleepily. “I thank you for both the tea and your kind hospitality,” he just managed to add as he drifted off.

oOoOoOoOoOo

Aramis meandered awake much more slowly than he had drifted off. He wandered in a dreamy half-sleep for a fair amount of time, letting the warmth of the room lull him whenever he drew too near consciousness. But, eventually, the sound of snoring and the weight of the hand resting heavily on his chest began to pull at his awareness, dragging him further and further from his comfortable haze, until, at last, he pushed his eyes open.

It was impossible to tell the hour from where he lay. _It must be late, though,_ he thought, as he caught sight of d’Artagnan sleeping in a chair by the dwindling fire, his head fallen back against the wall. A loud, truncated snore brought his gaze, next, to Porthos, who’d apparently been startled awake by Aramis’s change of state.

“Hey,” Porthos murmured through a yawn as he lifted his head enough to notice Aramis’s gaze.

“Hey,” Aramis replied, before bringing a hand up to where Porthos’s lay on his chest and raising an eyebrow.

Porthos shrugged. “I thought maybe it would be easier to remember that you’re solid and alive if you could feel me touching you.”

Aramis ducked his head self-consciously.

“Hey, none of that now,” Porthos consoled. “We all have our ghosts, remember…”

Aramis raised his head enough to smile appreciatively at his friend, but settled for patting Porthos’s hand in appreciation rather than speaking. He was still so very tired…

Fortunately, Athos padded quietly in the room just then, distracting both before any further words were required. Aramis raised an eyebrow, in lieu of asking where his friend had been.

“Just off filling in Treville,” Athos announced in low tones, then smiled at the mortified look Aramis tossed him. “Feeling better, I see,” he remarked, with a wry chuckle. “You must be if you have the strength for that expression.”

Aramis made face, but let the remark slide, otherwise, for fear that another attempt at speaking would sap what little strength he’d regained with sleep.

“Well, you’ll be pleased to hear that you’ll be stuck with us a while…” Athos grinned as Aramis made another face at him. “Or perhaps not,” he murmured, before continuing, “In appreciation for putting the regiment on the Cardinal’s good side, for once, Treville has given us a few days off to tend your miserable self.”

 _This is a story I HAVE to remember to ask about when I have the strength for it,_ Aramis mused. But rather than ask about it now, he mustered his strength enough to remark, with a good-hearted scowl, “Bunch of lazy shirks… It’s just a bit of a chill; doesn’t rate one nursemaid looking after me, let alone four.”

Porthos laughed, giving him a thump on the chest for good measure. “Looks like you’ve got us, all the same!”

 _Looks like I do,_ Aramis thought. _And you’ve got me,_ he added, a smile creeping onto his face as he drifted back into sleep.


	2. Apologies All Around

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I hadn't really intended a second chapter, but the muse had a mind of it's own and ran away with it.

When Aramis roused again (enough to be aware of consciousness), it was abrupt, as a low, rumbling bubbled up from his lungs.  He winced as the coughing spell took hold in force, awakening a throbbing ache behind his eyes that made him wonder if his brain were trying to burst through his skull.

Finally—after what seemed like forever, but was really minutes—the spell ended, and he collapsed back against his pillows, gasping harshly as he struggled to regain his breath.   Beside him, Aramis could hear a voice murmuring words he was sure were meant to be soothing, though he couldn’t quite focus enough to comprehend them.  Then, a large hand patted his chest, and it centered him long enough to gain control of himself.

“That’s it,” he heard the voice say.  “Just breathe… In and out… That’s it.”  Aramis forced his weary eyes open and smiled weakly at Porthos.  “Hey, there,” said his friend, barely returning the smile before a yawn displaced it.

“Hey,” Aramis croaked, grimacing as he tried to turn his body toward Porthos, only to discover that, while he’d slept, an ache had settled in seemingly every joint. 

“None of that, then,” Porthos scolded, and stopped patting Aramis in favor of pressing him down lightly.  “Fever’s only just broken, so you just relax and stay put.” 

Aramis glowered at him, garnering a chuckle from his friend, but settled back down.  Until, from the floor, came a sleepy voice, asking, “He all right?” 

Pressing himself higher against the pillows, Aramis intended to lean forward to better see the owner of the voice.  But Porthos, a step ahead of him, increased the pressure of his hand on Aramis’s chest, holding him in place.

“It’s only Athos,” he murmured. “And he won’t want you getting up on his account, will he?” Porthos added, raising his voice on the last two words.

“He definitely won’t,” Athos answered on queue and creaked up to his feet in order to reinforce the statement with a stern glare.   Once Aramis acquiesced and relaxed again, Athos stretched, yawning broadly.  “I heard Constance rattling around in the kitchen; I’ll go see if she’s started any tea.  That seems to help last night.

Aramis’s brow furrowed as Porthos nodded.  _Last night?_   _I feel like I’ve not slept at all._

“Constance assured us it didn’t taste as bad as all that,” he heard Porthos insist and realized his friend had misconstrued his expression. 

Tossing him a meagre half-smile, Aramis shrugged.  “Not so bad,” he began, but then had to pause for breath. “I suppose.”

Porthos patted him and winked.  “Good, because I think you’re in for quite a lot of it.  She’s been feeling quite maternal toward you, which is better than wanting to slap you, eh?”

Aramis laughed at that, but then grimaced as it sparked a fresh spat of coughing.  

“Easy,” Porthos soothed.  “Sorry, shouldn’t have made you laugh,” he added, once the coughing had eased, but Aramis waved away the apology.

Worn out, he closed his eyes and listened to sound of d’Artagnan snoring lightly from somewhere on the floor, letting it combine with Porthos’s absent-minded pats to lull him back toward sleep.

“Uh, uh,” clucked a soft voice, though, rousing him back to wakefulness.  Opening his eyes, Aramis found Constance approaching the bed, a cup of tea balanced in her hands.  “Not until you’ve had a bit of tea to ease that congestion, eh.  You’ve been so sleepy that we’ve hardly gotten anything at all in you the past few days, and now that cough’s grown horrid…”

Aramis frowned.  _The past few days?  Wasn’t it just last night that they tucked me into d’Artagnan’s bed?_

“None of that, now,” Constance scolded, though it was softened by a smile.  “It’s good for you, and you know it.”

Aramis nodded, woefully, too weary to correct her assumption or attempt a charming reply.

“’ere, I’ve got it,” Porthos chimed in, rising up to take the cup from Constance, in lieu of moving out of her way.  She hesitated, and he winked at her.  “He won’t dare put up a fuss for me.” 

Aramis glowered at that, and Constance chuckled lightly. “All right, then, you make sure he drinks it all before falling back to sleep,” she instructed, all but wagging a finger at him. 

Porthos nodded, dutifully, as he pledged, “Every last drop.”

“Bring the cup out when he’s done and have some breakfast,” Constance continued.  “I can sit with him a bit while you eat.”

Aramis opened his mouth to say it wasn’t necessary, but a yawning voice from the floor interjected, “Breakfast?” and Porthos laughed.

“Ruled by his stomach, that one,” he remarked, as d’Artagnan stretched up off the floor and peered at Constance with hungry eyes. 

Constance shook her head at him, ruefully.  “Come on, then.  Breakfast for you,” she said to d’Artagnan, then turned back to Aramis.  “And, you, behave now and drink up.  You’ve had us worried to exhaustion,” she admonished, before softening her tone and adding, “I can bring you breakfast, too, if you think you can manage it?”

Aramis closed his eyes as he pondered it.  His stomach didn’t seem to mind the idea of food, but the rest of him…  He winced at the thought of all the effort eating would entail. 

“Perhaps later, then,” Constance suggested, in response to his expression.  “After you’ve rested a bit more.”  Opening his eyes, Aramis smiled, sleepily, and Constance nodded, accepting that as all the answer she was likely to get.   She patted his foot gently, before glancing toward Porthos.  “I’ll make those two,” she shrugged toward the door through which d’Artagnan had just vanished, “leave plenty for you.”

Porthos grinned and gave her a short, appreciative nod.  Then he turned his attention to Aramis, who frowned at him.  Porthos raised an eyebrow in response, to which Aramis raised a hand toward the cup.

“I’ll manage,” he huffed, earning a shrug from his friend.

Hmmf,” Porthos responded, dubiously, but handed over the cup.  Aramis noticed his hands lingered, ready to steady the cup when needed.

The tea, though pleasantly warm against his ravaged throat, wasn’t too hot.  Thus, Aramis drank quickly, fearing his strength would give out before he finished, forcing him to allow Porthos to hold the cup to his lips, after all.  He smiled in relief as he swallowed the last drop and lowered the emptied cup into Porthos waiting hands.  His eyes drooping, Aramis drifted in semi-awareness while he waited for his friend to wander off in search of his breakfast.

Instead, though, Porthos simply slumped back into his bedside chair, setting the cup on the floor beneath it as he went.   Aramis prodded his eyes back open and turned, wincing at the difficulty of it, toward his friend. 

“You’ll miss your breakfast,” he gasped out, frowning at how much effort it took.  _She won’t be able to fend them off your share indefinitely,_ he’d meant to add out loud, but found he simply did not have the breath for it.

Porthos just waved him off, though.  “Not that hungry, anyway.”

Aramis attempted to humph in reply, but it turned into a ragged series of coughs that left him too breathless to try again.  Eyes closed, he concentrated on gathering himself as Porthos patted his chest anxiously. 

“That’s it,” he could hear his friend murmuring, almost more to himself than to Aramis.  “You’re doing fine…just breathe.” 

The worry in Porthos’s voice bothered him, so Aramis forced his eyes open again and smiled, wanly, hoping to relieve his friend’s distress.  Porthos return a grin, though the concern in his eyes remained.

“Be fine,” Aramis huffed out, patting his friend’s hand as it rested on his chest. 

“Course you will,” answered Porthos, confidently.  Aramis saw an uncertainty in his friend’s eyes, though, that made him wonder how much longer he’d been ill than he realized, and just how bad it had gotten before he’d awoken to this blasted cough.   

“What it is?” he heard Porthos ask, anxiously, and realized his brow had furrowed disconcertingly as he mused.  

Aramis weakly waved away the concern.  “’m fine.”

The looked Porthos shot him in reply would have made him laugh if hadn’t stopped himself for fear of another coughing spell.  Aramis grinned, instead.  “’k, not fine…be fine, though.” 

Porthos nodded this time and patted his chest.   He frowned, though, as Aramis sucked in another breath deep enough for speaking.  “You’ll get there faster if you quit chattering and sleep some more,” he chided. 

Aramis tossed him a weary half-smile, before opening his mouth to speak, anyway.   “How long…been sick?”

Porthos’s hand began its slow pats again, as he replied, “It’s been 3 nights and two days since the fever set in.” 

Aramis’s brow furrowed at that.  _I’d swear it was just yesterday that I shot M…_ He stopped himself from finishing the thought, too tired to contemplate that grief again just yet. 

“You were awake for some of it, but weren’t particularly coherent.  Fever was burning too hot,” Porthos explained.  Aramis nodded, weakly, and let his eyes droop shut.  He figured the conversation done now that his question had been answered, but Porthos surprised him by adding, reticently, “I’m sorry…that we weren’t there, you know, when…to…for…” 

Aramis pushed his eyes open again, brow furrowed, as he watched his friend stumble over his words.    Finally, Porthos stopped, took a breath to gather himself, and tried again.  “I’m sorry about Marsac.”  Aramis’s gaze dropped to the bed.  “I’m sorry that he’s dead…that you lost him, whatever he meant to you.  And I’m sorry we weren’t there…that you had to do it yourself.”

Aramis forced his gaze back to Porthos, who was himself now staring at the floor as he continued, “We should have been there…  Not just for...”  Porthos paused for another deep breath, before stammering on, “We should have been there to stop him.  You shouldn’t have had to do that yourself, or at least not by yourself.”

“Wasn’t,” Aramis interrupted.  “Captain…was there.”

Porthos peeled his gaze up from the floor to meet Aramis’s eyes.  “Yeah,” he replied.  “But we should have been there, too, not just then, but…”  His eyes fell again.  “We abandoned you,” he finally spat out, bitterly.  “We held to our faith in the Captain, walked away from you…and it weren’t right! You shouldn’t have had to go through this alone.  We should have been there!”

“Wasn’t alone,” Aramis reiterated.  Closing his eyes long enough to gather a breath and compose himself, he then met Porthos’s eyes, just as his friend raised them up again.  “You were there…as much as honor allowed.” 

Porthos frowned, his brow furrowed in distress.  “Honor be damned!”

Aramis smiled wryly.  “Honor…a complicated thing, but...what are we without it.”  Porthos grimaced, and Aramis squeezed his hand, as he sucked in another breath to continue.  “I cannot say that I was not hurt…that I did not feel abandoned.  Nor can I say…that I fault you for your actions or think…you should have done otherwise. It was a complicated affair…with complicated emotions…that I have yet to sort out…myself, so how could I expect clarity…of you?”

He squeezed Porthos’s hand again and waited to see if his friend would respond.  Porthos just bit his lip uncertainly, so Aramis continued, “I do not doubt…your loyalty, or love.”  Porthos smiled, finally, though it was pensive still.  “Go, eat,” Aramis added, resigned that it was the best he was going to manage from Porthos until the dust had settled a bit longer.   He was too spent for more now, anyway.  “Goin’ sleep,” he only just managed, before his grip on Porthos’s hand relaxed with sleep.

oOoOoOoOoOo

When he next awoke, it was Constance sitting at his bedside, rather than Porthos.   A twinge of disappointment vied with relief.   _He was exhausted, needed a break from me._

“Hello, there,” he heard Constance’s friendly voice chime before he could muse any further on his friend’s absence.   “It’s nice to see those handsome eyes of yours open.” 

Aramis smiled, wanly, and cleared his throat. “Don’t let d’Artagnan hear you…talk like that,” he replied, with a wink. 

Constance laughed, then replied, “I see you’re feeling better, then.”  She smiled as he nodded, weakly.  “Good!  I would hate to have chased the fellows away for nothing.”  Aramis’s brow furrowed, and she rubbed his hand in response.  “You overtaxed yourself before,” she explained.  “Porthos had hardly left the room before the fever returned.”  Aramis frowned, earning a pat from Constance, this time.  “Don’t worry.  I haven’t scolded him for wearing you out—as quiet as he was at breakfast, I think you wore him out as much as he did you,” she assured.  Aramis continued to frown, though, so she patted his hand again.  “I simply sent them off after lunch for a bit of exercise and fresh air.  They were getting restless with all the waiting and watching, and that was making you restless, I’m certain.  You slept much better with them all shooed away.”  When Aramis’s expression remained glum, she added, with a wink, “Supper’s nearly ready, though, so I expect they’ll be back soon.”

Aramis tried to smile, aware that his mood was concerning her, but it morphed into a grimace as a harsh cough burst out, signaling the start of a spell.  He was breathless by the end of it.  Vaguely aware of a small hand patting his chest, he kept his eyes closed as he reflected on his last conversation with Porthos, and it occurred to him that he, too, owed an apology.

“Here,” Constance offered, interrupting his thoughts, and he opened his eyes to find a cup of tea awaiting him.  Aramis wrinkled his nose at it, prompting a tolerant smile from Constance. “It’s better than coughing up a lung.”

Aramis nodded in agreement, pushing himself up higher on the pillows and reaching out to accept the cup.  Constance handed it over reluctantly, her hands ghosting over his as he drank. 

“There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Constance soothed, as he let the empty cup fall into her hands.   She chuckled as he wrinkled his nose at her, again.   “There’s some fresh bread and nice beef broth, if you think you’re up to it? Would do you good…”

Aramis smiled, appreciatively.  He didn’t feel especially hungry, but he _did_ feel weak as a kitten.  _There’ll be no getting my strength back with tea alone,_ he mused, as Constance nodded, looking pleased, and hurried off to fetch the food before he change his mind.   

Aramis closed his eyes and let himself drift while she was gone, but regret nagged at him, preventing him from really relaxing.  Thus, he nearly sighed with relief at the sound of her footsteps returning.  Opening his eyes, he smiled hungrily, as the aroma wafting off the plate reached his nose, prompting a vociferous growl from his stomach.

Constance grinned.  “That’s a good sign!” 

Aramis nodded, but his eyes had fixed on the plate.  He ghosted a frown as she set the plate on the chair beside the bed, instead of his in his lap, and sat down beside him. 

“None of that, now,” Constance cooed, reaching for the bread, breaking off a piece, and soaking it in the broth, before gingerly handing it to Aramis.  “There are no witnesses at the moment, so it won’t hurt your pride so very much to accept a little help…especially when it spares the risk of broth spilled all over my sheets.”

Aramis tossed her a wry half-smile, but bowed with a flourish of his hand, before accepting the soaked piece of bread. 

He managed only a third of the loaf before his out-of-practice stomach decided it was done.  Apologetically, Aramis raised a hand at the next piece of bread offered him.  “My thanks, Constance,” he huffed.  “But I do not think…I can manage more.”

Constance only smiled and patted his hand as it dropped to rest on his chest.  “You did better than I expected,” she confessed, prompting a wearing grin from Aramis.  “Sleep.  I’ll just set this back in the other room and come sit with you until the fellows return.”

Aramis waved a sleepy hand at her.  “It’s really not necessary,” he insisted, but Constance only clucked at him.

“Perhaps not,” she agreed. “But I promised Porthos, and I am a woman of my word,” she added, with a wink and smile, but it fell promptly away as Aramis’s expression fell.  “Aramis?” she asked.  “Are you ill?  I shouldn’t have pushed you to eat…”

Aramis shook his head and attempted a reassuring smile, but the remorse in his eyes belied the effort.  “’m fine,” he assured.  “It feels good to have some food in me.”

“Mmm,” responded Constance.  “Your expression does not say fine.” 

Aramis’s gaze fell to the bed, as he sucked in a slow, steadying breath.   Then, he raised his eyes again to meet hers.  “You just reminded me…that I have been remiss.”

Constance raised an eyebrow at that.  “Remiss?  You have barely been conscious, Aramis.  There is very little you expected of you at the moment beyond breathing and sleeping.”  Aramis not-quite-smiled at that, but it was near enough for Constance, and she patted his hand in relief.  “Whatever you think needs doing, it’ll wait a bit longer,” she added, with one last pat, before turning to pick up the plate. 

Aramis gripped her hand, though, instead of letting her go.  Turning back to meet his eyes, she frowned at the anguish in them, as he said, “Please, Constance, I must say this now…lest it escape again from my addled brain.”

Constance frowned, disapprovingly, but resumed her seat on the bed beside him, allowing him to keep hold of her hand. 

“I must apologize,” Aramis begged, woefully.  “Though my intentions were honorable...they do not excuse my abominable behavior,” he lamented.  “I lied to you…for which I am truly sorry, and worse yet…spurred d’Artagnan into deceiving you….on my behalf, as well.  I put him in an…impossible situation which allowed for…no honorable options. I should never…have involved you.  It is inexcusable…,” he finished, breathlessly.  He wanted to say more, but had run out of both air and energy.    _Nor am I coherent enough to express my thoughts properly,_ he sighed to himself.  _Still, however sorry an apology is may be, it is better than none at all._

Constance’s eyes moistened, and she patted his hand.  “You are a good man, Aramis,” she responded.  “I am certain of that.”  Aramis’s gaze fell to the hand that rested on his.  “I cannot say I approve of your actions, but without an understanding of the provocation, I cannot fully judge them, either.  As for d’Artagnan… He is a grown man, responsible for his own choices.”  Aramis looked up, alarmed, but Constance continued, before he could argue.  “Don’t worry.  I have forgiven him, as well,” she assured, with a pat.  “All is good between him and I, and between you and I, so rest now,” she urged.

Aramis smiled, gratefully, though he longed to say more, longed to better explain himself.    Constance squeezed his hand in response.  “Sleep,” she insisted.  “If more needs to be said, it can been said later, when you’ve breath to spare and sufficient strength to charm me into listening.  For now, the matter is closed.”

“And what matter is this,” a voice from the door bellowed, before Aramis could consider a response.  Looking up, he smiled weakly at Porthos.  “It seems a rather serious subject from the expressions…”

Constance waved away the remark.  “I was only saying he should sleep again now that he’s had his dinner,” she stated.

Porthos grinned.  “Getting your appetite back, eh?  That’s a good sign!  Have you back on your feet in no time, now.”  Striding over, as Constance stepped away from the bed, Porthos patted his friend’s hand.  “You look half-asleep already,” he added.  “So be a good guest, now, and do as the lady asked.”  Aramis raised a heavy eyebrow in question.  “Sleep,” Porthos clarified, prompting a dreamy half-smile from Aramis.

“You, eat,” Aramis murmured, as his eyes fell shut, and he drifted off into sleep.

“Yes! Us, eat!” came an eager voice from the doorway, stealing the attention of both Constance and Porthos away from Aramis and toward d’Artagnan.  “It smells delicious!”

“You’re right.  He is ruled by his stomach,” Constance grumbled, with a smile, earning a chuckle from Porthos.   “But don’t you worry,” she added, as he shifted to sit by the bed.  “I’ll bring you a nice big plate to nibble at before you fall asleep in that chair.”

“You are a blessing from above, Madame,” Porthos replied, with a bow. 

Constance ducked her head appreciatively, blushing a little.  Striding out the door, she murmured just loud enough to be heard, “As are the lot of you—a blessing from above I’d hardly know what to do without anymore, however much trouble you bring.”

And on the bed, more in a dream than not, Aramis smiled. 

The end.


End file.
